First
by NairobiWonders
Summary: My first fanfic ... Their first kiss ... A little joanlock just for fun.


Evening had fallen and still he sat on the floor of the brownstone, surrounded by photos and files and clippings, scrutinizing and staring at the bigger wall of crazy, as Watson had once dubbed it, that loomed on the wall in front of him. Watson presented a modified version of his position, sitting in a smaller puddle of similar documents, holding her head in her hands, eyelids drooping. The case was not an overly complicated or gruesome one. They had seven suspects, all equally capable of having committed the murder but no clear indicator of who it might have been and this was driving Holmes mad. He couldn't get a grip, a good hold, on the case. Watson was beginning to slump.

"WATSON!"

Joan sat straight up, at first looking startled and then peevish.

"Right here, Sherlock." Sarcasm dripped.

"No, you were not here. You were succumbing to sleep. In your current state, you are of no use to me. Get some rest and come down when you are more alert." Had any one else said this to her she would have been incensed. But coming from Holmes, with his furtive glances and softer than usual tone, she knew the commands came from concern.

"I'm fine. I was just resting for a bit." She shuffles the photos in front of her. The case was intriguing and she was committed to sorting it out. Plus, she couldn't cave in to his commands so easily lest he think he controlled her.

He stares back at her and she knows he can see right through her. "Well, if you don't need me, I'll go upstairs for a bit of a lie down." He half smiles. Damn it, she was picking up some of his britishisms or was it americanisms … Eh, she was too knackered to even begin to sort it out.

Holmes watched after her for a bit and returned to the task at hand. One of these seven was getting away with murder and that was not permissible.

2:37 a.m., Joan Watson's room.

The door to the room is opened, light from the hall illuminating the bed and its occupant.

"Watson. … Watson… Are you awake?" Holmes asks loudly but with the slightest bit of trepidation in his voice. He has awakened Joan many times at odd hours of the night and knows she can get a bit uhm, volatile at times.

The sound of Sherlock's voice pulls Joan awake. Mercifully she is too drowsy to launch anything in his direction and instead answers. "I am now … What is it?" as she raises herself onto her elbow.

"I need to talk through something, I need a listener and Angus hasn't been the same since the smashing."

She half smiles, ducking her head to the side so he doesn't see it. Humor is always a way to win her cooperation and he knows it.

"Do you have something?" She sits up further and turns on the small bedside lamp. Holmes takes the invitation and plops down on her bed with his file folders, opening them up and spreading a few of the images out.

"This case should not be this difficult. I am not seeing something that I'm sure is right in front of me…" And with that he goes on a monologue of possibilities and assumptions about the suspects and their motives and actions while Watson interjects a question or a comment where she can to further prod Sherlock's deductive muscles.

They are going around in circles. Frustrated, Holmes throws the papers down in disgust and sits back on the bed, running his hands through his hair and eventually placing them behind his head. Watson, equally frustrated, flops back off her elbow and let's out a loud sigh. They continue discussing hypotheticals ad nauseum until Holmes realizes he is not getting much input from Watson. He turns to find her asleep. He enjoys the fact that she is comfortable with him. Not having had many friends, her trust and her affection for him always surprises him, as does his for her. He watches the slow rhythmic pattern of her breathing and carefully reaches across her to turn off the lamp. Holmes eases himself down and stares into the darkness, his mind still whirling with the details of the murder.

Pale pre-dawn light is filtering into the room. Holmes and Watson are wrapped around each other in amiable comfort. Her head rests on his chest, tucked under his chin while her right arm encircles him. He holds her protectively to him leaning his cheek on the top of her head. Watson happily snuggles down a bit and Holmes adjusts accordingly taking in a good long breath while a faint smile crosses his lips. Suddenly his eyes pop open.

"Watson!"

She jerks up, stiff arms holding her body away from his, "I'm sorry, I don't know how I got here, I, I didn't mean to…."

He looks at her confused "what are you babbling on about?"

She stammers some more.

He barks at her, "quiet!" Still holding her her excitedly exclaims, "I've just had an epiphany."

"The case?"

"Of course the case! Seriously Watson, what else would I be talking about."

Internally she thinks "oh I don't know the fact that we just woke up entwined …"

He continues, "Smell, Watson, smell! The scent of the beloved is instantly ascertainable, sight is not required."

"Oh my god, yes!" She understands immediately. They had an eighth suspect, a blind suspect who they had ruled out because of his impairment. She was still stiff armed over him, while he held her at the waist.

Staring into his eyes and only thinking of how brilliant this man is, she blurts out, "You are amazing!"

His eyes intently on hers, he rotates her softly onto her back, brushes the hair back away from her face, "No, Watson, we are amazing." And without thought he kisses her. Her hands rise to bring his head closer and deepens the kiss. He slowly breaks away, going back for one more soft kiss, his eyes searching hers. For once the veneer of neutrality they both keep is dropped as they lock eyes. He drops his head from the intensity of it and she kisses his forehead. And just like that, the moment is broken. He hops up, standing at an angle to the bed "Right. We need to get a move on here. I'll go put the kettle on shall I, hmm?" And he steals one of those quick side long glances to gauge her reaction.

She just as quickly snaps up from her prone position, flipping her hair back and matter of factly says, "give me five minutes to get ready and I'll meet you in the kitchen."

He gives her one of those soft looks he reserves only for her, "I'll give you six minutes" and he briefly smiles and in a flash leaves. She hears him bounding down the stairs and smiles to herself.


End file.
